


Lobe-A-Lot

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Freakazoid (Cartoon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-20
Updated: 2009-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A musical extravaganza in which Lobe and Freakazoid meet again -- in France -- with tunes from Camelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lobe-A-Lot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for htbthomas

 

 

One summer morning, The Lobe -- sporting a large beret, oversized trenchcoat and thin moustache -- was walking by the Eiffel Tower with a smile across his enormous face. 

"Oh, Freakazoid," he said. "You are such a fool. If you only realized what your little Lobey is cooking in his cranium..."

* * *

That same morning, the Douglas family was taking a romantic summer vacation in scenic Paris. Dexter's father was in a rather un-masculine sun hat and his mother, wearing shades and a similar-looking sun hat, was as ebullient as ever. Dexter's brother Duncan was having none of this, and shuffled his feet along the streets.

"Oh, will you look at that, Dexter," his mother said. "It's the Whatchacallit. You know, that spiky thingamuhjiggy that looks like a caved-in pyramid."

"You mean the Eiffel Tower?" Dexter said. 

"Yeah. And it sure is an eye full, too!"

"Say, Dexter," his father said. "Why don't you and your brother stand next to each other and pose in front of the tower."

"Sure Dad," Dexter said.

Dexter's brother, Duncan, wasn't so sure. "Do we have to?"

"Come on, boys." Their father begged, raising his Polaroid-style camera. As the picture was being taken, Duncan allowed himself to punch Dexter in the arm. The resulting photo, developed in a matter of moments, was one of Duncan's punch and Dexter's wince of pain. A typical family vacation picture. 

* * *

Sitting on a nearby park bench, feeding the pigeons, was The Lobe. A smile continued to play across his face as he pretended to toss bread crumbs, only to watch as the pigeons would look for them, but not find them. Then, feeling sorry for them, he tossed a few crumbs their way - only to have the pigeons ignore them. 

Frustrated, The Lobe skulked away, hands in his large trench coat pockets. As he walked toward the Louvre, The Lobe sang this song:

[Tune: "The Simple Joys of Maidenhood"]

__

Oh, Freakazoid! Dear, Freakazoid!

It's Lobey's turn to pay a call

Oh, Freakazoid! Dear, Freakazoid!

It's to the Louve I'm going to crawl.

You know the vilest thoughts I've had

You must admit I've always been a cad

But Freakazoid, Dear Freakazoid,

You won't catch up with me this time

It's here I'll make my mark!

I'll rob the Louve of Venus, 

And Notre Dame of Joan of Arc.

I won't stop there, I'll overtake the great Mont Saint Michel

And force the world to bow before me, pray to me as well...

But Freakazoid, Dear Freakazoid,

Where will you be when I'm the Man?

Freakazoid, Dear Freakazoid,

I'm sure that you'll be chopped up ham!

There are the simple joys of villainy,

Of building and creating booming toys!

There's the whining siren calling me,

Who leaps away to new safe-ty!

Oh, these are the villain's simple joys!

Shan't I have the normal life a villain can?

Shall I never be the hero that I truly am?

Shall I fight and never be `llowed to flee?

And let me live for vile treachery?

Oh, I wish these deeds would make you scram!

I should be upon the pinnacle

Adorned in royal robe!

Not be despised, or ever still,

Scorn-ed for my Lobe!

These are the simple joys of villainy!

No one can take them from bold, silly me,

I shall snatch up all the loot,

Put Mona Lisa in my boot,

Freakazoid is miles away,

And here in France I dance and play!

Oh, these are the simple joys of villainy! 

* * *

The heist went off without a hitch. The Lobe's death ray, leveled at the Venus de Milo, was enough to get people to panic. The security guards in the Louvre were no match for the Lobe's ray, either, disintegrating two of them before all hands were held high. The Lobe's henchmen - and even some of the remaining security guards - were enlisted in stashing valuable statues and artwork in a rented truck. As soon as the Lobe and his henchmen had raced away from the scene in their nondescript truck, the curator of the Louve felt comfortable and safe enough to send out an all points bulletin.

Dexter Douglas and his family, meanwhile, had chosen to eat lunch at a small café on the Rue de la Paix. He had been sampling the pate de foie gras with little appetite for it when he overheard the all points bulletin coming from a nearby police car. Hoping to get away from his family for at least a short time - and avoid eating any more duck liver - he excused himself and went to the bathroom. With a simple "FREAK-OUT," Dexter turned himself into Freakazoid.

Emerging from the restroom in his new guise, Freakazoid made his way over the his family's table. 

"Mmmmmmmmm!" he said, licking his lips. "Duck liver!"

Duncan looked sick.

"Eat up, folks!" Freakazoid shouted to all in the small café. "Liver is good for you!" Then, Freakazoid looked at the camera that seemed to follow his every move. "And kids, here's Joe to tell you all about liver!"

"Thanks, Freakazoid," Joe Leahy the announcer cut in. "That's right, kids. Liver is a yucky meat product that your parents will force you to eat. But don't worry. Liver has iron. And iron makes you strong. It helps your blood do its blood thing. And when you go to France, because you know you will someday, make sure you eat all of your duck liver because it's good for you. We promise. No, really. Now, back to Freakazoid."

Freakazoid wove his way through Paris to the Louvre. The curator, seeing Freakazoid, nearly fainted but recovered long enough to explain the situation.

"The Lobe, huh?" Freakazoid said.

"Oui! Oui!" the curator said quickly.

"Where's the wee-wee?" Freakazoid said in a Jerry Lewis style. "Did also that do, The Lobe?" Then changing his attitude to a more serious one, Freakazoid continued. "Never fear, Mr. Curator. I shall find and return all the missing art or my name isn't..." 

"Hey, Freakazoid!" Sgt. Mike Cosgrove stood next to his police car parked outside the Louvre.

Freakazoid raced over to his favorite peace officer. 

"Cosgrove! What are you doing here?"

"I'm on vacation."

"And your police car?"

"It's on vacation too. Say, you wanna go to the Pastry Festival?"

"There's pastry festival?"

"Yeah. Every year. In Paris." 

"You mean here in France? Or Texas - because there's a Paris, Texas, too, you know."

"France."

"Ohhhhh. So, then, you mean we're going to the Coupe du Monde de la Patesserie?"

"Yeah."

"All RIGHT! Let's Go!"

* * *

Lobe and his henchmen reached his French hideaway, a small residential building near Versailles, late that same day. His henchmen had not disappointed him. The whole house was filled with artworks from the great masters - along with small bits of weaponry and machinery enough to build his Maximum Factor Ocular Lashing Machine - the weapon that was going to destroy Freakazoid once and for all. 

Complete with his trademark lab coat and goggles, Lobe began tinkering on the most important portion of the machine in the dungeon-like basement. The sounds of cars honking and people rushing about outside. Lobe, ever the workhorse, broke into song. 

[Tune: "I Wonder what the King is Doing Tonight"]

__

I know what the people are thinking tonight

As home through the shadows they wander. 

Everyone smiling in secret delight, until I steal Freakazoid's thunder! 

Just wait `til the wind blows this way! 

You can almost hear Freakazoid say...

"I wonder what The Lobe is doing tonight. 

"What mischief is that gorgeous brain pursuing tonight? 

"What dastard deeds are cooking in his mind so bright? 

"I wonder what the Lobe is up to tonight."

How goes the final hour, 

High in your mighty tower, 

To plot and plan illegally? Beware! 

Well, I'll tell you what the Lobe is doing tonight to prepare! To prepare!

You mean that the Lobe who lost his cool, 

Bombed himself twice and looked the fool, 

Goes to meet Freakazoid and make a mess? Yes. 

A mighty plan made for the battle? 

One that'll make poor Freakazoid rattle? 

Making French women petrified in fright? Right. 

You mean that appalling clamoring, 

That sounds like a blacksmith hammering, 

Is merely the banging of his Freak-a-Knees? Please!

You wonder what the Lobe is wishing tonight? 

He's wishing that poor Freakazoid was fishing, tonight! 

What occupies his time, while waiting for the fall? 

He's waiting patiently for someone to call. 

And oh, the expectation, the sublime anticipation, 

He must feel about the fateful fight to come. 

Well, I'll tell you what the Lobe is feeling tonight, 

He's happy! He glad! He's angry! He's mad! 

And that is why the Lobe is plotting tonight!

* * *

Freakazoid and Cosgrove were stuffing Napoleons down their gullets at the Pastry Festival. 

"Ooooooh," Freakazoid moaned, looking another delicious pastry in the face. "I didn't realize how difficult it would be to defeat so many Napoleons. There sure are a bunch of you, aren't there."

"There's more next door, you know," Cosgrove said.

Freakazoid made a face, as if he was going to lose every one of the Napoleons he'd already eaten.

"Quit the antics. You gonna finish your pastry, or not?"

Freakazoid was about to eat it in one gulp. But instead, handed it non-chalantly to Cosgrove who took a sultry bite.

"By the way," Cosgrove said, his mouth full of Napoleon. "The Lobe's probably near Versailles. But I'll bet he's headed to Mont Saint Michel. You'll have to hurry if you're gonna stop him."

"Mont Saint Michel, huh," Freakazoid said, under his breath. "OK. But I wish he'd choose places that were easier to pronounce." With that Freakazoid dashed and zigzagged through the crowd, hands raised above his head, on his way to right society's wrongs.

The ground trip to Mont Saint Michel - by foot, taxi, rowboat and scooter - was interrupted by a flock of sheep just outside of the old monastery. 

"This is baaaaa-d," Freakazoid brayed at the shepherd (who kinda looked like Jesus in his white robe and everything). "Really baaaaaaaa-d." The shepherd looked up at Freakazoid. The sheep, likewise, looked up at him. 

"Would ewe please move these sheep?" Freakazoid brayed. "There's a villain on the lam, and he's trying to fleece everybody!" Then Freakazoid addressed the ever present audience. "Punny, dontcha think?"

With a nod, the shepherd moved his flock - as slowly as molasses - across the road. 

"Fast forward, already!" Freakazoid said to the ever-present cameraman.

* * *

From deep within the compound of Mont Saint Michel, over loudspeakers, came another valiant song as Freakazoid scootered his way down the long pathway leading to the monastery. As he sang the song, a collossal ray gun - in the curious shape of a mascara wand - emerged from the top of Mont Saint Michel. 

[Tune: "C'est Moi"]

_Freakazoid! Freakazoid! In far off France I'll make you bawl._

Freakazoid! Freakazoid! And here am I to give my all!

I know in my soul what you expect of me,

And all that and more I shall be!

A dang'rous supervillain should be invincible

Succeed where a less fantastic man would fall!

Yes, I know, you think I'm slime

For building bombs in record time

I won't gloat, but you'll note the heavy arsenal.

No matter the pain, he ought to be un-wince-able

Impossible deeds should be his daily fare

But, where in the world is there in the world a villain so extraordinaire?

C'est moi, c'est moi, I'm forced to admit, it is I, I humbly reply,

That mortal who

These marvels can do

C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I

I've never lost in battle or game

I'm simply the best by far

When bombs are tossed

'Tis always the same

One blow and au revoir!

C'est moi! C'est moi!

So admir'bly fit

A Mental Prometheus unbound

And here I stand with valor untold

Exception'lly brave, amazingly bold

To serve ninety explosive pounds...

The plans of this mind should be a thing remarkable

This heart and this plot as pure as T-N-T

With a will and no self-restraint

(`Tis the picture I wish to paint)

I could easily bring a day of Villainy!

To maim and destroy he ought to be unsparkable

The ways of the pure should offer no allure

But where in the world

Is there in the world

A man who is so obscure?

[spoken] C'est moi

C'est moi! C'est moi!

I blush to disclose, I'm far too noble to lie

That man in whom these qualities bloom

C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I

I've never stray'd in all I excel

I'm bless'd with an iron will

Had I been made the partner of Hell

You'd be footing the bill!

C'est moi! C'est moi

We heroes have chosen to fight our battles below

And here I stand as pure as a pray'r

Incredibly mean, with malice to spare

The deadliest man I know

C'est moi!

* * *

Freakazoid was non-plussed. Parking his scooter, he marched up the steep incline of the monastery to meet The Lobe face to face.

"Lobey...Where's the artwork?"

"What's it to you, Freakazoid? You'll be dead in a matter of minutes."

"The artwork, Lobe...?"

"Oh, if you must know... It's in my hideout near Versailles.But don't try to be a Goody Two-shoes and return it. Venus and I...we're engaged you know. I proposed to her on the way."

"Oh, congratulations. By the way...what's the fascination with mascara?"

"I like the way it highlights my eyes."

"But...you're eyes don't need highlighting."

"I know. But my lady chiropractor thinks I look sexier when I wear it."

"So...you made this big mascara tube for your chiropractor?"

"No, you silly nincompoop! I created it to destroy you! It's darkness will blot you out from the face of the earth!" Lobe retorted. 

"Maybe it will. But it's also gonna make a mess! Not to mention the ecological disaster. Think of the fishies swimming in the ocean. Think of the way it'll clump all over everywhere. And have you ever tried to get it off after it's been stuck on for a long time?"

"Oh, and you know about all of that, do you?"

"Well, not exactly. But..."

"Look here, Freakazoid. This large destructive device is my latest effort to take over all of France - it's art and cosmetics industries are just the start. I shall soon be in charge of its culinary delights as well. No more shall such disgusting foods as Pate de Foie Gras and Grey Poupon be put on supermarket shelves for the masses to eat. I, yes, I the Lobe will force feed crepes and croissants to every last boy and girl! So, Freakazoid, prepare to meet your maker!"

A loud buzzing sound emerged from the top of Mont Saint Michel as the Maximum Factor Ocular Lashing Machine surged to life. Just as it's dark matter came spewing out of the machine, nature turned on the waterworks. Rain poured down onto the monastery and all the area surrounding it, causing the Maximum Factor Ocular Lashing Machine's beam of darkness to dissolve to nothing but a black runny mess.

Freakazoid burst into action, streaking toward the Lobe. But the Lobe, already keen to Freakazoid's tactics, jumped onto the back of his machine, flipped a switch, and caused a portion of his machine to become a jettisoned rocket. As the Lobe disappeared into the distance, Freakazoid could only sigh. The ever-present camera revolves around Freakazoid's head as he sings a final farewell to the Lobe.

[Tune: "If Ever I Would Leave You"] __

If ever you would leave me

It couldn't be in summer!

Seeing you in summer

Must have made me slow.

Mascara streaking darkness,

A mess for me to clean,

The fishies in the ocean

Get angry when you're mean!

But since you chose to leave me,

I'll catch you in autumn.

When you're caught in autumn

I'll land the final blow.

I've seen your rocket crackle

As it's flying through the air.

I'll see you in autumn

So better beware!

Why would you leave me

To always take care of your mess?

Can't you take care for yourself

All of your sins to confess?

So say you'll never leave me

Especially in springtime!

Knowing how in spring I'm feeling all aglow?

Oh, no! not in springtime!

Summer, winter or fall!

No, never should you leave me at all! 

As the music swells to a conclusion, a mascara-streaked Freakazoid descends Mont Saint Michel in sadness. Then, immediately brightening up, he asks the camera: "Uh...Hey...Does anyone have a tissue?" 

 


End file.
